Adventures In Parentlock
by TheOttomanEmpire
Summary: A collection of Parentlock drabbles, inspired by my . . . interesting friends that will be updated randomly. Yay. Rate T, just 'cause. I honestly don't know at this point. Anyway, yeah. Enjoy! Why is there no Hamish character? Augh! Oh, fluff would be the genre if that was a usable genre.
1. Chapter 1

**Readers,**

** I have become an obsessive little child. No regrets.**

** Written while RPing with my friends. **

**CAST: Sherlock: Katie**

** John: Emily (Me)**

** Hamish: Kaia**

**SUMMARY: While John and Sherlock are out working on a case, Hamish stays behind at the flat, being babysat by Mrs. Hudson. But Hamish can't go to sleep without saying goodnight.**

Waiting Up

"Hamish!" Mrs. Hudson chirped, peeping her head out of the kitchen. "Hamish, John called me! He wants you to go to bed, now!"

Though she still spoke kindly, Hamish smirked at the tired tone in her voice. He shook his head slightly. "No, no, I have to stay up."

Mrs. Hudson looked at him curiously, drifting into the living area. "Oh? Why is that, sweetie?"

Hamish sighed, picking up the bear Molly had gotten for him on his seventh birthday. "Because. I have to say goodnight to Dad and Father."

"Hm. Well, can't you just say goodnight to me?"

"No!" Hamish snapped at her, an appalled look plastered to his face. "I have to say goodnight to _them_, not you! I have to stay up for them!"

"Alright, then, why don't you wait up for them in their room?" Mrs. Hudson suggested, a tiny smile forcing its way onto her face.

The boy's eyes lit up. "That's a great idea! I'll go do that!" Grabbing his bear, he began to run out of the room, before doubling back, hugging the old landlady tightly, and running again. He grinned widely as he belly-flopped onto the bed, wriggling up into a sitting position against the massive amount of pillows. He leant back against them contentedly, hugging tightly to his lab-coat-wearing teddy bear as he trained his eyes determinedly on the door.

It was late when Sherlock and his husband arrived back at 221B Baker Street. Tired and completely overworked from a long day of running around and hunting down a serial killer who had earlier seemed uncatchable, the two were heavily leaning on each other, even during the cab ride home. They stumbled into the flat together, Sherlock slightly more awake and helping to prop John up. However, despite the mutually exhausted aura given off by both the detective and his doctor, both had to stop and smile when they entered their room to find their son curled up and snoring amongst the pillows.

Both too tired to care that they were still dressed in their street clothes, the crime-fighting duo flopped onto the bed, both chuckling softly as they cuddled up against each other, trapping little Hamish in between them like a Watson-Holmes sandwich.


	2. Chapter 2

**Readers,**

** Right, so, I'm evil. So, Kaia and I were updating her ask-Hamish blog (galaxies-of-deductions on Tumblr. Feel free to ask her any question) and this idea came about. Two people asked if Hamish had ever been kidnapped by any of Sherlock's enemies, and used against them. Of course, that resulted in this being written. Poor Hamish. I'm sorry, kid.**

** Emily is a work of my own imagination. Just one of the punk-girls at his school who seems to be able to put up with Hamish's shit.**

**Dark Room**

Hamish smiled to himself as two of his school friends poked at each other. "Come on, Alex," Emily snapped, pulling her messenger bag away from him. "Don't be such an ass!"

"It's not _my_ fault you didn't have it slung on right." He backfired, crossing his arms.

The spiky-haired girl shook her head, astounded by her 'friend'. "Oh my _God_, for the last time, there is no _right_ way to sling a bag over your shoulder!"

"Would you two shut up a minute?" Hamish asked, turning to look down the street. He nodded in the direction of a small black truck stopping a bit down the way. "See that there? He's been following us since we left school."

Emily and Alex were quiet for a moment, examining the car as discreetly as any elementary schooler could manage. "I'm sure it's nothing, Hamish." Emily reassured after awhile.

The small boy gave her a sharp look. "It's never nothing."

Suddenly, as they stood there talking, the truck began to roll forward. Even as Hamish decided it was time to get moving, the car sped up- following closely behind before pulling up slightly onto the sidewalk in front of them.

Two men hopped out of the vehicle, and raced after Hamish who bolted. But the poor boy wasn't fast enough. Large, strong hands wrapped tightly around his arms and shoulders and dragged him back as he struggled.

Alex and Emily both made moves to help, but Hamish was having none of it. "Just run!" He screamed. "Get my father! Or Lestrade! Anyone, just go!"

As the boy was shoved into the truck, Alex turned and ran, dragging his frantic friend behind him as he went to find help.

As soon as he had put what he felt was enough distance between himself and his friend's captors, he pulled out his phone and began to dial. After only a single ring, John picked up.

"Where are you?" He asked sternly. "You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago!"

"John, something's happened!" The dark-haired boy exclaimed, out of breath from the run. "Somebody pulled up in a black truck. They . . . They took Hamish, and I . . . We couldn't do anything!"

The line was dead silent for a moment. "I'll get Sherlock." John said after a long pause before dropping the line entirely.

Hamish was shivering as the men guided him into a well-lit office, and sat him down in a chair. The secured his arms to the arm rests with a pair of zip-ties before leaving the room. Not really seeing anything else he could do, the boy panicked. He tugged and pulled at the zip-ties; hoping beyond hope that he could somehow break free.

His struggling stopped as a short, fat man stumbled into the room. He smiled his crooked, yellow smile at the boy, and moved to lean against the desk. "Hey, there, kid." His gruff voice was exactly what Hamish had expected it to be. "You're that Sherlock Holmes' kid, aren't ya?"

The boy gave a tiny nod, not wanting to open his mouth.

The man laughed. "Shy?" He asked loudly, leaning close enough for Hamish to smell the alcohol on his rotten breath. "Well, don't worry kid. We ain't gonna hurtcha unless you deserve it. I need you to help me settle a debt."

"What debt?" Hamish asked. "And what does my father have to do with it?"

"Yer daddy's the one that got me locked up." He growled. "You can't exactly pay up when yer behind bars."

The boy narrowed his eyes. "And your pathetic drug debt is my father's fault?" He asked bitterly. "It seems unfair, doesn't it, that my family should have to pay to feed _your_ addictio-."

The man slammed a hand across Hamish's face. "Listen up, ya damn kid." He commanded, hand steadying the boy's face towards his. "I'm the boss around here. Ya can't just go around insultin' or annoyin' me like that. Got it?"

Instead of replying, Hamish spat in the man's eye; smirking as he reeled back into the desk. His smirk was wiped away, though, when the man slammed a fist into the boy's gut.

"Weren't you listening!?" He demanded crossly. "I said _don't_ irritate me!"

"I don't believe . . . you said those . . . exact words . . . at all." Hamish replied through gasping breaths.

The man's face reddened even more for a second before he broke out into a dark chuckle. "Fine, kid." He threw a hand up. "We'll play it safe, then. I'm not supposed to damage the merchandise."

Before Hamish could ask what he'd meant, he called the two other men in again. They lifted up the chair- not releasing the child's arms- and carried him down a series of long hallways. Eventually they reached a rather heavy-looking door, and opened it. They set the chair on the floor in the middle of the room. One cut the zip-ties while the other held Hamish down, and then they left; locking the door with a padlock.

The moment the men left, Hamish flew to the door. He pounded on it; screamed for them to let him out, or face the wrath of his parents, his uncle, Lestrade- pretty much any powerful person he could think of. When no one seemed to take notice, Hamish finally noticed the lack of human life in the hallway. He was alone.

Feeling crushed in the darkness of his cell, the boy slid to the floor. The pain from earlier had been dulled by adrenaline before- but now he felt it. It was like somebody had stabbed him in the stomach. Something felt twisted; though that may have been the dark and cold that seemed to meld together as hopelessness sank in.

Days past before Hamish heard anyone other than the 'guard' coming to bring him food. Any thought of being saved from some retched fate in here forever had been stamped out by the silence; the smell of mildew; the darkness of the tiny room. The entire situation had begun to feel unending. He was beginning to accept that he might be trapped in this room for a longer time than he'd originally thought he might.

The boy silently cursed himself for not having enough faith stocked in his parents. Surely they would come to rescue him soon.

Of course, positive thoughts only led to more negative. What if his parents _did_ come? What then? These men were all armed, as Hamish had learned during his previous attempts to escape. What if his father tried to free him, and ended up getting himself shot? That was the last thing he wanted!

And what if the trade that man was planning- Hamish's life for quite a lot of money- didn't go as planned? They'd already beaten him before when he misbehaved, and when he tried to escape; but they may be motivated enough to kill him at some point.

But worst of all; what if the deal went through? Under the right circumstances, Sherlock would steal all of Britain's best-kept secrets to trade for his son.

Before his train of thought could tread any further, the sound off creaking metal and a crack f blinding light caused him to flinch back against the furthest wall. "Come on, kid." The voice of the man from his first day in this hell bounced off of the empty walls. "Yer Daddy's here fer a trade."

After processing this information for a moment, Hamish shook his head slowly; cautiously. "They . . . They wouldn't do that . . ."

The man laughed cruelly. "Well, apparently they love ya more than ya give 'em credit for, huh?" Impatient, he walked into the room and grabbed the small, malnourished boy by his arm; dragging him out of the room. They walked through corridor after corridor before exiting the building altogether.

There, out in front of some gang's base, stood John, Sherlock, and Lestrade. The Detective-Inspector had his gun at the ready, but the man holding a gun to the side of Hamish's head soon changed that.

"A'right, then!" The man shouted- the stench of his breath filling the heavy air. "You have what I want, and I have the kid."

Lestrade lifted a duffel bag into the air. "This is everything you asked for." He announced. "Money, passports, and a few tickets for the first train out of London."

The scruffy man narrowed his rat-like eyes. "Throw me the bag."

The DI tossed the bag to the gang-leader. The man opened it hurriedly; losing his grip on Hamish's arm for a moment.

Gleeful at the momentary prospect of freedom, Hamish pulled himself away and tried to run over to the others. However, a boy as malnourished and beaten as himself wasn't able to get far.

The man grabbed onto Hamish's arm firmly, dropping the bag in doing so. "You little shit!" He squeezed him hand crushingly tight against his thin arm, and the boy yelped in pain. "You can't just run and expect to get away! It ain't that simple, and I ain't that slow!"

"You _are_ that thick, though." Hamish said with a smirk, eyes flashing proudly at John.

His dad had taken the chance his son had given him, and run forward- drawing his gun on the gang leader.

The man growled; reaching to pull his gun again.

"Looking for this?" Hamish pulled away from the dumbfounded man, holding his gun up triumphantly. "I'm not as pathetic as I look." He darted away; dropping the gun onto the ground and running straight for Sherlock- enclosing him in a bone-crushing hug.

The detective picked his son off of the ground; comforting him as he tried not to cry. Lestrade moved as quickly as he could over to the gang leader and cuffing his hands behind his back. As soon as the DI had him, John rushed over to Sherlock and Hamish; hugging them both tightly, and helping Sherlock to comfort the boy.

The car ride home had been quiet and awkward enough; but it was even worse when he came back to school a week later. His friends had both been witness to the kidnapping, and believed him without a doubt when he said that was where all the bruises had come from. The other students, however. Were quick to believe that there was a new bully at the school.

Normal life for Hamish did return relatively quickly, though. He put the past behind him; stored those days in Hell with the other nightmares in his brain. Including the nightmares about that cold, dark, lonely black room that seem to return every night.


	3. Chapter 3

In which Hamish finds himself with a really nasty fever, and about as restless as both his dads put together.

Hugs.

Restless

Hamish woke up at about six that morning- as usual- and he felt that something was off. When he first stood up from his bed, he felt dizzy, and accidentally fell back onto the soft mattress with a little- "Oomph!"

Shrugging it off as some sort of slight mineral deficiency or something. He got up, got dressed, and exited to the living room area of the small, two-bedroom flat he shared with his dads. He grabbed a bowl out of the cupboard, along with a spoon, and his cereal off of the top of the fridge. Plopping down into a chair at the horrendously cluttered dining table, Hamish was about to spoon some of the dry cereal into his mouth when he realized just how woozy he was feeling.

He heard the sound of feet padding across the wood flooring before he saw John walk into the room. "Morning Dad." He muttered, resting his head in his hand, and dropping his spoon on the table with a loud clang.

John tilted his head. "Morning. Are you alright, Hamish? You don't look well." He walked over to him, sitting in the chair next to him and holding a hand to his forehead.

"Dad, knock it off." The teen grumbled, swatting his dad's hand away. "I'm fine. It's just a nutrient deficiency or something, I'm sure."

"Oh, really?" John crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair. "And what haven't you been eating enough of?"

The boy gave his father a look. "I'm not sure, yet." He replied coolly. "I suppose I'll figure it out over the course of the day." He looked down at the wrist watch his father had given him for his birthday last year. "And, look at that. Gotta go." He stood up quickly- too quickly- hugged his dad, and left, waving at a sheet-clad Sherlock as he left.

That day, during school, he could focus on nothing but the blood rushing through his head. He- the genius student- couldn't even pay attention to his teacher for six hours; couldn't keep up with the conversations between Alex and Emily during the lunch break. He completely missed the fact that Alex was being pulled out of school by his dad until they were walking home later.

"Hey, are you sure you're okay, Hamish?" The black-haired boy asked. "You're really pale."

Emily nodded, looking at him closely. "Much more so than usual. And you're sweating."

"People sweat when they walk." The detective's son snapped. "It's normal, in case you haven't noticed."

The girl smirked and shook her head. "You, Hamish Watson-Holmes, do not work up a sweat while walking home from school."

Hamish shook his head in reply. "I . . . I'm fine, okay."

"That doesn't sound okay." Alex narrowed his eyes in note of Hamish's heavy breathing. "That's it, I'm calling John."

His curly-haired friend shot him a weak, bloodshot glare. "Cut it out, Alex, I'm-." Hamish coughed heavily into his hand. "That doesn't pr-prove anything! I'm fine, damn it!"

The other two were unsure whether they should laugh, or run hamish to a hospital. "Alright, screw this." Emily- sick and tired of Hamish acting like such a brat- lifted her friend up and slung him over her shoulder.

"O-Oi!" Hamish kicked at her. "What the bloody hell are you doing!?"

"Let's go, Alex." The punkish teen huffed, dragging hamish along while Alex stared in complete and utter confusion at the two. "If we're late again, John might actually shoot us."

Within five minutes, Alex and Emily had dropped Hamish off at 221B Baker Street and were on their ways home separately.

John had practically pulled hamish inside when he saw his chalk-like complexion, and began asking him a series of questions about how he felt. "Are you tired? Overheating? Too cold? Feel like you're going to throw up?"

That last one got Hamish's attention. "Oh, yes . . . That's what I forgot to do . . ." Without saying another word to John, he raced into the bathroom and threw up into the toilet.

That was about the time Sherlock walked in through the door. He looked off after his son confusedly as he was sick. "John, what happened?"

"Hamish caught a bug or something." The ex-army doctor replied. "Pretty nasty. I think he needs lots of good rest, and some good food, and he'll be fine."

Minutes later, Hamish was sitting at the foot of his bed in a t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants, rubbing a hand through his curly black hair. He- genius son of the greatest detective who ever lived, and his doctor husband- couldn't be sick! It just wasn't in his genetic build-up to sit and rest. He huffed angrily, and flopped backwards onto the soft mattress- turning and burying his face in the pillow.

He could hear movement and low talking from downstairs, and he could tell right away from the short pauses in between sentences that it was John on the phone. He concentrated, listening closely in the hopes that he could hear what his dad was saying, but gave up in vain minutes later with a sigh.

Grabbing some Agatha Christie novel off of his nightstand, Hamish tried to immerse himself into the mystery, but soon found himself bored after figuring out the killer in the second chapter. He threw the book across the room, making a loud bang that had both his parents running up the stairs.

"What's going on up here!?" John demanded upon reaching his doorway.

Hamish shrugged. "Threw a book."

"Why?"

"Because the ending was too easy to figure out!" He complained, turning his body away from his dad. "It was too boring!"

Sherlock smirked at that for a moment before John elbowed him in the side. Sighing, he made his way over and sat at the foot of Hamish's bed, nodding for John to leave.

"What do you want, Father?" The boy asked, just barely shooting him a sideways glance.

The detective cleared his throat. "Obviously this being sick is bothering you. Your dad just wanted me to talk to you about it."

"Why you?" The boy asked, narrowing his dark eyes. "You don't know a whole lot about being a dad."

"No, but I assume it's because we have more in common than you and John."

Hamish had to give that to him. Though not quite as smart as his father, his brain functioned on a higher level than most other people's, and they both found it damn near impossible to sit still most of the time. The worst days around the flat were when the both of them were bored.

Sherlock sighed. "Anyway, how about we make a deal?"

The boy's head picked up at that. "Deal?"

"Yes," The detective stood up with a faint smirk. "If you sit and rest until you're better, I'll take you to a crime scene with us."

Hamish's eyes widened. He'd only been to a crime scene once before, and that had been the death of his own mother when he was an infant. The one thing he'd wanted since growing up with the two of them as parents was to go to an actual crime scene, and here his father was- offering it to him with a simple deal.

The boy smirked. "Deal." He said, reaching out to shake his father's hand before curling into a ball amidst his mound of blankets.

Sherlock practically hopped down the stairs, grinning as he walked over to sit across from John.

"How'd it go?" The ex-army doctor asked, sipping some of his tea.

His detective smiled. "Well, he's going to- at the very least- sit quietly until he's better."

John nearly choked on his tea. "How on Earth did you manage that?"

Sherlock shrugged a bit. "Well, we may or may not have to bring him to a crime scene with us when he's better."

Well, that was a crap ending. Leave me suggestions if you want some specific parentlock jazz.


End file.
